


Children of the Barricade

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Everyone is Dead, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every man's death, from their point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of the Barricade

Marius couldn’t believe it. 

They’d dreamed of a world reborn, a life after the barricade. 

But now it was gone. 

He, the only survivor, could only dwell on the memory of his friends, could only feel the pain of being completely alone.   
\--  
Jehan hadn’t at all expected it. One minute he was holding a gun, simply trying to defend himself and his friends, when somebody snatched him. 

He was blindfolded and gagged, dragged off somewhere undoubtedly away from the barricade, away from his friends. He didn’t scream, couldn’t, the gag too tight around his mouth. 

He felt his hands being roughly tied even as he fought, twisting hopelessly in their grips. A chair, he realized, feeling around. They’d tied him to a chair. 

Then, the blindfold was pulled off of him, and men were standing over him. The darkness wasn’t so here, lanterns and candles surrounding the area. 

“It doesn’t look like him,” A guardsman said, roughly taking Jehan’s chin in his hand to see his face. “Didn’t he have a red coat on?” 

“That’s because it isn’t him, you bloody idiot.” Another said, shaking his head. 

“It was too dark. They’re both blonde.” 

“That doesn’t make them the same person.” 

“Still,” The Guard closest to Jehan said, roughly tugging the gag out of his mouth. “He might be able to tell us something.” 

“Fine.” The other said, walking towards the small poet. “Right, boy, tell us. What is your plan?” 

Jehan stayed respectfully silent, his eyes lowered. He didn’t see who’s fist connected with his jaw. 

“Tell us.” He commanded, his voice firm. 

“I would not betray my friends if my life were on the line,” He said, voie strong. He was among the shyer of the Amis, but he was just as strong, as able, as the rest of them. “You can hit me as much as you see fit. It will do nothing.” 

“Very well, then.” A guardsman said, tugging a knife from his belt. 

Jehan’s eyes widened just a bit and the man smirked wickedly, before sinking his knife into Jehan’s stomach. 

Jehan screamed. 

“Ready to talk?” He asked gruffly, twisting the knife cruelly. Jehan whimpered, before the knife was roughly tugged out of him. Jehan couldn’t help but scream again. 

“Sir,” Another guard calls, peering around the corner at the man. “There’s a boy from the barricades outside. Says he wants to talk to us.” 

The guardsman hesitated, the bloody knife still in his hand. With a huff he straightened, tucking the knife back into his belt and retreating.

Jehan caught a breath he didn’t know he was holding and listened, hearing a familiar voice. Combeferre. 

Moments later the guard returned, looking down at the poet, a smirk settled over his face. “We’ll bring you back, boy.” 

He paused just long enough to hear Jehan’s sigh of relief, before continuing. 

“But first we’re gonna make you talk.” 

Somebody gagged him from behind, and a new knife was driven into him too slowly, Jehan soundlessly screaming into his gag. 

It went on for hours. 

By the end Jehan was still miraculously silent, only letting tiny whimpers get past the gag. 

In the end, they made a decision. 

The leader of the Guardsmen made an appearance, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Jean Prouvaire, you are hereby sentenced to death on the charge of treason and resisting arrest.” 

Jehan stared unwaveringly at the man, before he was roughly pulled to his feet. He winced, his body screaming at him. 

He stumbled along, and he slowly realized where they were going. 

The gag slipped along the way, and Jehan spoke in a broken voice. “Kill me like men. Privately.” 

“Your case calls for a public execution. Have to show you off.” Somebody said, all but throwing him towards the barricade, in front of their many guns. 

He heard a gasp and a scuffle, but didn’t look to his friends. He raised his head, his eyes on the killers in front of him. 

“Vive L’France! Long live the Republic!” He called out, voice strong. 

He heard the gunshots, then nothing.   
\--  
Bossuet had bad luck all his live. He never bothered to change it, and never fought against it. 

Perhaps, if he looked at it just right, he was actually the luckiest. 

He was the first among his friends to die after Jehan, shot down at the barricade. He only lived a second after the shot was fired, yet he was glad for the mini-eternity. Through the white-hot feeling of pain, he could see his friends. 

They were all so passionate about the cause, their beliefs, fighting to to change the world. It was beautiful.

And then it was over.   
\--  
Bahorel was always one to pick a fight, so he wasn’t shot. Instead, he knocked the musket right out of his enemy’s hands, and fought him like a real man. No weapons, only fists. 

But, of course, the Guard cheated. 

In the very midst of their fight, just as it was getting food, and he was winning, the Guardsman picked up a forgotten musket and stabbed him with a bayonet. 

It was an awful way to die, and completely unfair. Cheater. 

He fell to the ground with a dull thud, his breath slowly decreasing. He caught sight of a man dragging Marius away, and was silently grateful for it. Maybe he would get to marry that girl he’d been so intent on just a few nights ago. 

He died with that thought in mind, his eyes still on the place Pontmercy had been saved.  
\--  
Fuielly had fought as well as he could, but it clearly wasn’t good enough. His friends were dropping like flies around him, and he slowly lost energy to the death around him. 

There was nothing he could do.   
\--  
Joly had done what he could. 

Not built for fighting, he instead protected the wounded, tried as best as he could to help his friends, to heal their wounds. But, as he hovered helplessly over Bossuet’s body, he felt panic set in. Before he could think too much, he felt somebody pull him away. 

When he could reach himself again and looked around, he was upstairs in the Musain, hurling plates and teacups in the direction of the Guardsmen below, his mind foggy. How could he let his best friend die? It was inexcusable. And it hurt. 

Before he could truly become immersed in his guilt and the task of throwing things at the National Guard, he was pulled to the middle of the room. Others hushed him nervously, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He returned the small gesture to the others in some attempt to comfort himself as well as them. 

They all stood very still, and Joly closed his eyes tightly, praying that all this was some terrible dream he’d thought up, that he was going to wake up in bed with the thought of a real barricade far away. 

Then the shots were fired. 

He fell, pain shooting through his body, and faintly felt the weight of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s bodies across his back. He tried to stay awake, to fight, but he eventually gave way to the darkness closing in around the corners of his eyelids.   
\--  
Courfeyrac never dreamed of such a thing happening to him. He knew what they were doing was dangerous, but the center couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked around to see his friends lying dead around him.

Combeferre grabbed his shoulder and nodded towards the Musain, where Enjolras was heading, also. He elbowed a Guard in the chest, threw a punch to another. So intent was their leader, Courfeyrac lost himself for a moment. How could one man be so passionate about such a thing? It was mesmerising. 

Combeferre shook him again and he nodded, running behind the man. Combeferre had lost his spectacles along the way, but Courfeyrac hardly noticed. He did notice Joly, though, looking ready to cry. Without much thought, he took hold of the man’s arm and pulled him along behind the others. 

He dashed into the tavern and struggled up to the second floor, the stairs having been removed for the barricade just a day before. He pulled Joly up and took a saucer off the nearest table, throwing the forgotten china down, doing what he could to hinder their enemies. 

Were they the last ones? Had anybody survived? Would their Revolution end with too many bodies and not martyrs, but examples?

The thoughts ran, hot and dangerous through his mind, and he almost didn’t move as someone steered him towards the center of the room, out of the eyesight of the Guards. 

They all stood very close, and Courfeyrac slowly lifted his arms. He was standing between Enjolras and Combeferre, and he let his arms settle around their shoulders, holding tightly to them. He kept his eyes open but stared at the ground, hearing the Guardsmen below them shuffle, moving carefully.

Then, there was a moment of complete and utter silence. Nobody moved, there wasn’t a sound.

Then the shots came, and it was all over.   
\--  
Combeferre wasn’t built for battle. 

He was tall and thin, made more for chess or something much less dangerous than this. Even still, he managed to keep his mind clear as he fought. Well, he tried to fight. It wasn't going well at all before Enjolras appeared and landed a punch square in the Guardsman’s jaw, essentially saving the poor man’s life.

Enjolras didn’t offer time for thanks, instead gestured towards the Musain and nodded. Combeferre got the hint and nodded back, lingering only a moment to shake Courfeyrac once, twice, before the brunette came out of his thoughts. 

He, in turn, took hold of Joly, and they all managed to get to the second floor without getting killed, though the Guardsmen were too close. 

When he saw Courfeyrac with the saucer he quickly caught on, chucking an empty teacup at their heads. 

It went on that way, the Guardsmen disoriented by the group’s sudden plan of attack, trying to climb stairs that weren’t there. 

Enjolras eventually guided them further into the room, retreating to the center.

They all knew what was coming. 

He felt Courfeyrac’s arm around him and returned the movement, both arms taking the shoulders of both Joly and Courfeyrac. 

His eyes were open, though his vision blurred due to lack of his spectacles, but he could still make out the faces around him. 

Joly, teary and terrified, his eyes closed tightly. Vaguely, he looked like a child. 

Courfeyrac. Looking more like an infant than Joly, his dark hair fell into his face. He was bloodied, the red soaking through his shirt. Whether it was his own or somebody else’s, he didn’t think even Courfeyrac knew. 

Enjolras. He had a fierce look about him, his mussed blonde hair dirtied. His red coat in the morning sunlight made him look like a sort of God.

He was still watching the leader when the shots came.   
\--  
Grantaire had been asleep during the battle, oblivious to the gunshots and yells. 

When he woke up, all was silent, and there were three bodies only a few feet away from him. Not only that, but there were Guardsmen everywhere, surrounding-no. 

It couldn’t be, could it? Grantaire stood up, though nobody noticed him. It _was_ him. Enjolras. 

He could run. Nobody would notice him. He could leave this place, start anew. But he knew he wouldn’t. He would rather die next to him, or at least in the same room, than live without him. 

“Long live the Republic!” He called, nodding. “I’m one of them.” 

Many of the Guardsmen turned, others too intent on the leader, and he carefully stepped over the bodies strewn around them to stand beside Enjolras.

“Finish both of us at one blow.” He said, before slowly looking to Enjolras. Enjolras who he idolized, loved, lived for. What was life without him? If he was to die, so was Grantaire. “Do you permit it?” 

He felt a soft hand press against his, and caught sight of Enjolras’ rare smile. 

Grantaire heard the shot and felt it, falling at Enjolras’ feet. 

_Finally_.  
\--  
Enjolras was surprised, to say the least. 

However much he’d planned, how he prepared himself and the others, told them what may happen, he never thought such a terrible fate could come to his friends. 

He’d fought as well as he could, but he knew when he was beaten. 

Weighed down by grief, he stood in the corner of the room as Guardsmen bustled towards him. 

He recognized one, just vaguely. They lived on the same street, played together. 

Cops and robbers. How ironic. 

“Shoot me.” He offered, folding his weaponless hands solemnly. 

There was a moment of confusion among the men, but it was through in a flash. 

“Take aim!” One called, the man Enjolras knew. He couldn’t place his name. 

Then, the voice sounded. 

He vaguely recognized the voice, and peered over the soldiers at him. 

Grantaire stumbled towards his side, saying words Enjolras didn’t hear or understand. Then, his mind cleared. 

“Do you permit it?” 

Somewhere inside him, relief flooded through. He wouldn’t have to die alone. 

His hand found Grantaire’s and clasped it, smiling softly. 

When the bullets came he didn’t fall, only let go of Grantaire’s hand and lowered his head, pinned to the wall.

In his last moments, he vaguely realized how wrong he was.

About everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this took forever. Please, tell me what you thought!


End file.
